No Tool
by hobgoblin123
Summary: The Hunter's having a night out. No slash for once, except maybe faint hints, but contains violence.
1. Chapter 1

**No Tool**

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, although I wish I would… No profit whatsoever is intended._

"As a concerned citizen of Jaggonath I urgently appeal to our indifferent, undutiful authorities to end this unholy menace once and for all. Our homes and streets have to become safe again instead of offering hunting grounds for those hellish abominations who roam our city at night, choosing their prey from our beloved wives and daughters for their vile pleasure."

With a satisfied sigh the Honorable Judge Fisher put aside his pen and rubbed his stiff hands. The fire in the open fireplace in his bedroom had burned down to a weak glow, and to his dismay he felt the impending first storm of the approaching winter deep down in his old bones. The wind had already freshened up considerably, and the shutters rattled. Fisher shivered. He wasn't getting any younger, and it was due time to realize his ambitions.

If he was first mayor of Jaggonath more honors might follow, maybe a seat in the High Council or even a post at the ministry. Fisher had no doubts that he was destined for greater tasks than being burdened day after day with narrow-minded neighborhood quarrels, divorces and moronic petty criminals, and the population's increasing hysteria regarding the Lord of the Forest suited him well for his election campaign. _The Hunter_ the stupid multitudes called the monster full of horror and awe, and Fisher snorted contemptuously.

Personally he couldn't have cared less about the fate of the young women who were foolish enough to stay outside after nightfall, but why not use the Hunter and the visceral fear of the citizens to discredit his political opponents? '_We use what tools we must._' Try as he might he couldn't remember which prominent Ernan had shaped this famous phrase, but he would be damned if he wouldn't use that spawn of hell and his nocturnal enterprises for his own devices.

A gust of wind howled around the house, stronger than the previous ones, and Fisher pulled his flimsy, tan dressing gown tighter around his narrow shoulders. Frugality was doubtlessly recommendable, but tonight he needed a glass of hot grog and some extra firewood. Cursing his aching joints Fisher got up and rang for his housekeeper.

When, after five minutes that felt like thirty, still nothing had happened Fisher was getting impatient. For about twenty years Janet had diligently fulfilled her duty in his household and had, if necessary, also warmed his bed, but now one could tell her age, and it was time to look for a replacement. The meager payment for her services certainly hadn't allowed her any savings, but as far as Fisher knew Janet had relatives in Kale, and if she wouldn't be welcome at their home there was still the workhouse for the poor. Fisher shrugged indifferently. He was, after all, not a charitable institution, and sentimentality had never been an option for him.

A renewed, more forceful pull at the bell still brought no response, and Fisher's mood was rapidly darkening from mere impatience to petulant anger. Had the lazy slut turned deaf all at once? Thinking about it he should have replaced her years ago with some hardworking and comely maiden. With winter looming there won't be a shortage for desperate, more than willing young women, and the judge decided not to wait until spring, but to look for a new servant the first thing in the morning.

His pleasant reverie, accompanied by a lecherous grin, abruptly evaporated into thin air, stopped by a muffled moan and an unsettling noise that sounded suspiciously like something heavy hitting the floor. Fisher pricked up his ears, his eyes wide with bewilderment. What the hell was going on downstairs? The judge frowned exasperatedly. Maybe the old hag had become sick, and he really could do without having to call a quack in the middle of the night, thank you, not to mention the fee he would have to fork up from his own pocket.

Another ominous sound assaulted his ears, a mere hint of movement, almost drowning in the fierce howling of the wind, but saturated with a stealthy viciousness that sent shivers down his lean spine.

Fisher froze with apprehension, all muscles tense. The old house had been the home of his family for generations now, and he'd been born in the same bed with the faded, rose patterned draperies that had been smiling at him invitingly a few minutes ago. He knew the cracking of the ancient woodwork, the creak of a floorboard in the hallway and the unnerving clatter of those loose shingles whose much-needed repair was postponed each spring until the onset of the first autumn storms reminded him of his neglect. None of these familiar, commonplace noises possessed that eerie aura of a silent, deadly threat wrapping its icy tendrils around him.

"Janet?" croaked the judge, his old man's voice weak and trembling, but there was no answer to his call. Summoning all his courage he seized a poker with trembling hands and cautiously opened his bedroom door. If this was an absurd joke played on him by one of his political opponents or a silly prank by some teenagers the delinquents were in for a nasty surprise. He had no intention of letting himself be intimidated so easily.

If, on the other hand, the trespasser was a demon his chances dropped significantly. Fisher had hired a supposedly competent sorcerer for an outrageous fee to Ward the doors and windows against demonic attacks, but on Erna there was no one hundred percent protection against the faeborn, a bitter fact that the human colonists had learned the hard way. Muttering an archaic Banishing through gritted teeth that his mother had taught him decades ago Fisher stepped outside into the dark corridor.

No demonic abomination armed with fangs and claws jumped at him, but flickering candle light pouring from his library lit up the lower part of the stairway, and to his utter astonishment Fisher recognized the unexpected sounds of a bottle uncorked and some liquid poured into a glass with an inviting glug, followed by the soft rustle of not paper.

The judge relaxed visibly. Demons generally preferred their human prey's flesh, blood or pain instead of ransacking a library and enjoying a fine glass of wine, and simple burglars usually operated in a more secretive, stealthy way and could, in all possibility, be excluded under these circumstances as well.

There had to be a different explanation for the strange occurrences of the night. Given her age and her overworked appearance it wasn't very plausible that Janet was involved in an amorous affair, but nonetheless it was possible. Maybe she'd invited her lover, who was now reading his priceless books, a heritage from a distant cousin, while gulping down his vintage wine.

Rage replaced terror, and Fisher silently vowed to drive his employee out of his house that very night if his suspicions proved true.

His confidence boosted the judge surreptitiously descended the steep stairs, but stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the hallway. A weird, metallic odour assaulted his nose, strange, but yet familiar, and Fisher's nostrils flared while he stood still like a statue, testing the air in the manner of a terrified animal. Then realization dawned, and his eyes went wide with shock. Blood, the whole lower floor reeked of blood, the unique, revolting scent mixed with the foul stench of human excrements, a repulsive mixture at home on every battlefield, but utterly out of place in a peaceful home. Fisher barely managed to suppress a horrified whimper.

"Please enter, Honorable, and keep me company. The nights can be long and lonely at this time of the year."

Doubtlessly the voice of a man, smooth, cultivated and absolutely irresistible, its uncanny pull so overwhelming that Fisher's feet moved on their own account and carried him over the threshold of his study very much against his will.

For a short moment Fisher's brain simply refused to process the visual input. Then his jaw dropped, and the poker fell from his limp hand, landing on the polished wooden floor with a metallic clank that did nothing to wake him from his horrified stupor.

In stark contrast to his chilly bedroom a merry fire was burning in the fireplace, softly illuminating the valuable ancient manuscripts that had been pulled from the shelves and were crowding his alteroak table. The stacks of books were fighting for space with an open bottle of his most prized red wine, placed in convenient reach of a shadowy figure that fondly cradled an ancient, leather bound volume in its lap, the long, pale fingers browsing reverently through the brittle pages with amazing gentleness.

To Fisher's immediate horror the scholarly, placid tableau was observed by Janet's empty, staring eyes. Her severed head had been suspended by her long hair from the chandelier, along with the better part of her intestines, while the eviscerated carcass had been draped on the blood-soaked carpet in front of the fireplace, twisted like a broken doll.

"There should be more blood", Fisher thought in a daze. "Where the hell has the rest of her blood gone?"

His unvoiced question was answered in a rather grisly fashion when a silk-clad arm rose languidly, presenting a long stemmed goblet filled with an ominous red liquid that sparkled in the firelight like a precious ruby.

"Here's to you, Honorable. I hope you don't mind that I dared to season your delectable wine a bit. I'm a man of refined tastes."

The cold amusement lurking behind the pleasant façade was unmistakable, and Fisher felt the bile rising in his throat.

"You look pale. Are you sure you don't want to share a drink with me? A pity we can't invite your indisposed servant."

When the goblet was presented to him in a cruel mock offer the judge at last lost his fight and emptied the contents of his stomach over his felt slippers, heaving until his insides were dry. Completely exhausted he fell to his knees, weak with shock, and attempted to wipe the vomit from his chin with a shaking hand, but was stopped dead in his tracks by the soft hiss of silk.

Slowly, ever so slowly the leather-bound book which had been so ardently studied by the creature occupying his ragged, old, favorite armchair was lowered, and Fisher very nearly choked on his own breath.

Soon he would have to face the demon, and he remembered all too well the unnerving stories about beings so ghastly that their mere sight could transform a stout fellow into a babbling madman.

His pulse flying and panting with stark dread Fisher forced his body to move and rose to his feet, but managed barely a few staggering steps until he collapsed again, his chest torn apart by a pain so intolerable that he had no breath left to scream.

Darkness approached, drowning him like a tidal wave, sweeping over him and pulling him downwards him into its icy depths. The last thing Judge Fisher heard was a chuckle laced with such malevolence that it burned his ears like cold fire. _The laughter of the damned_, he thought, and then everything was still and black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

When Fisher slowly regained consciousness the silence was absolute except for his frantic breathing, and he was still trapped in darkness so impenetrable that for a moment he doubted that he had truly opened his eyes. With difficulty he clenched and unclenched his half-frozen hands to stimulate his blood circulation until he was able to touch his face. Yes, his eyes were wide open, but try as he might he wasn't able to detect the faintest spark of light. Had that accursed escapee from the abysses of perdition robbed him of his sight, or was he already dead, forever trapped in a lonely, lightless hell?

Cold sweat drenched Fisher's body, and acid drops burned his blindly staring eyes while each wild beat of his ailing heart hurt like a dagger and an iron ring around his chest seemed to impair his breathing.

Heartbeat, breathing and pain, a sure sign of life as there'd ever been one, and despite the fierce ache Fisher almost sobbed with relief. Whatever had happened to him after he'd passed out he wasn't dead, and as long there was life there was hope. But if he wanted to stay sane he had to get out of this pitfall as soon as possible. Forcing down his terror the judge breathed in as deeply as his hurting chest allowed and started yelling for help.

Long minutes passed, and Fisher had already screamed himself hoarse and was fighting for breath, but no kind soul had come to his aid, and the old judge was close to despair again. Then his mood lightened in a heartbeat. An avid pipe smoker he always carried matches with him. Why hadn't he thought about that earlier?

Trembling with excitement Fisher groped for the pockets of his dressing gown, but instead of the familiar coarse fabric his shaking hands touched smooth, silky cloth that clung uncomfortably to his chill limbs. Instantly the faint spark of hope was extinguished and his restraint finally gave way to naked panic. Groaning Fisher tossed around like a man suffering from intolerable pain, but his writhing was stopped abruptly when his flailing arms hit an unknown barrier with a dull thud, a sound that sounded suspiciously like a knock on wood.

The judge froze and tried to pull himself together, groping for the obstacle with clenched teeth, just to find his mobility gravely restricted to a few inches on each side. When the acrid smell of his sweat mingled with fear the faint scent of rotting flowers the terrible realization dawned on him. He was trapped in a coffin, and the silky fabric was his shroud. He had been buried alive.

Appalled Fisher remembered the ghastly tales told in hushed voices about those doomed souls who had woken in their own coffin and their fruitless attempts to escape their underground prison while the vital oxygen was getting scarcer and scarcer. He'd always been scared to death by those stories, and now his worst fear had caught up with him.

In unspeakable terror the judge gasped like a drowning man, while the invisible steel band crushing his desperately pumping chest seemed to get tighter by the second and fiery circles danced before his eyes.

Something in Fisher's mind gave way, and all rationality perished in the mind crushing fear of a trapped animal and the purely instinctive fight for survival. With a grisly howl that should have never been wrested from a human throat he dug his fingernails into the coffin lid, vainly trying to claw his way back into the world of the living, but when Fisher pushed once again with the unnatural strength of a man driven to insanity by naked dread the lid suddenly gave way and slid to the floor with a resounding crash.

After having been confined in the dark for quite a while the judge had to squeeze his watering eyes shut as he greedily sucked stale air into his lungs. To his infinite relief Fisher realized that he was indeed in a coffin, but hadn't been buried yet. Moonlight flooded the little mortuary and shone on the wilting flowers and wreaths that had been scattered around his pompous black coffin in the wake of his lucky escape from his uncanny prison.

Fisher shivered in his thin robe, and his teeth were chattering, but at least his breathing had returned to normal, and the excruciating heartache had dulled to a tolerable level. Better not to think about the fate that would have been waiting for him if he had awakened from his coma a few hours later…

Carefully Fisher scrambled from his coffin and quickly flopped down on one of the wooden benches that were intended for the grieving relatives and friends of the deceased. His legs were shaking, he was dizzy and his heart was still beating irregularly. There was no point to wander about the cemetery in the middle of the night looking for help, and without a sliver of doubt he would never make it home on his own in his current condition, not to mention the unholy demons that roamed the dark, driven by their unquenchable hunger for human prey. No, he would bide his time and wait for the undertaker who would certainly appear at the break of dawn to start his daily work. The lazy bugger might be in for a heart attack of his own!

A hollow moan rudely interrupted Fisher's thoughts, a noise so eerie and unearthly that his hairs stood on end. The judge rose slowly, all senses alert, and let his eyes wander through the chill little chapel, his gaze warily scanning the shadows. What he really didn't need on top of his worries was a hungry demon haunting the cemetery.

Then the judge blinked, and his jaw dropped. Busy with his own troubles Fisher had completely failed to notice that he wasn't the only "customer" inside the morgue. A second coffin, far shabbier than his own pretentious last resting place, had been laid out on a little podium at the far end of the mortuary, and there could be no doubt that the horrid groan emitted from this receptacle that had apparently been hastily nailed together from some cheap plywood.

Fisher put his hand to his aching head and rubbed his forehead. What on this godforsaken planet was going on here? The judge was by no means a specialist in probability calculation, but even he knew that the odds of two pour souls struck with suspended animation laid out simultaneously in the same morgue weren't even worth mentioning.

Cautiously he approached the coffin with small, tentative steps, as if magnetically drawn to it against his will, but ready to jump back at any suspicious occurrence.

Fisher had almost reached the primitive wooden box when the lid was pushed aside ferociously and slid down to the stone floor with a vengeance. All senses on red alarm the judge flinched and prepared for a quick retreat, but the horrible sight that greeted him when the groaning inhabitant finally managed to struggle into a sitting position nailed him to the spot, and he couldn't bring his legs to move.

The thing swaying precariously inside its coffin might have been a human being with dreams, hopes and needs not long ago, but its body had been so horribly mutilated that Fisher couldn't even determine whether it had been a man or a woman. The left arm had been torn out at the shoulder joint, and of the face nothing but a red, pulpy mass interspersed with white bone splinters and sharp teeth remained, teeth that dominated a hungrily gaping maw.

The incredibly deformed, twisted body was mercifully covered by a coarse shroud, but there couldn't be a sliver of doubt that nobody could have survived those lethal injuries. Whatever this creature was, it had to be dead. Or undead.

Frozen with cold horror Fisher recalled a compassionate article in the Jaggonath Times, asking for donations on behalf of the bereaved poor relatives of a worker at one of Jaggonath's bigger furniture factories. The man had been pulled into one of the steam powered machines and had died of his injuries on the spot, leaving his wife and five children. As had to be expected the unfortunate accident had been a fine opportunity for the socialist rat pack that dared to call themselves journalists to start their usual ranting about inhuman working conditions and the exploitation of the poor.

A cold, clear certainty rushed through Fisher that right now he was an eye witness to the horrendous mishaps that the ill-fated combination of fae and technology could inflict on the human colonists on Erna, and when the monstrous thing moaned again and groped for him with its remaining arm he turned on the spot and ran.

Sobbing with horror the judge grabbed the door latch, waiting for cold, dead fingers on his shoulder blades, but to his heartfelt relief the door gave way. Stumbling outside he found himself in a well kept cemetery, the grave stones and imposing mausoleums of the affluent cold and still in the pale moonlight, silent memorials of his own mortality.

After having staggered away from the accursed morgue of horror for about fifty meters the torrent of adrenaline that had carried him on its wings subsided somehow, and Fisher had to take a break, leaning for support against an angel whose stony eyes watched impassively over the grave of a human being who had crumbled into dust long ago. Panting for dear life's sake his wide eyes were locked on the door of the little chapel. Maybe the monster was somehow confined to his coffin by its devastating deformities, maybe he had misinterpreted the situation or was hallucinating, maybe…

A distorted shadow darkened the moonlight lit entrance, and the zombie appeared, staggering haltingly on the splintered remains of his legs. The eyes of the undead were dull, bereft of any human expression, and his head lolled from side to side uncontrollably, but soulless and determined like the machine that had killed him he moved unwaveringly towards the judge, attracted by the smell of living, warm flesh.

Fisher very nearly choked on his own breath and turned again to flee, but had barely covered a few meters when suddenly a sharp jolt went through his right foot and he was brought down unceremoniously, hitting the soft, leaf-strewn soil with full force.

Cautiously the judge tried to get up, cursing his bleeding nose, his aching limb and the damned tree root that had tripped him at the worst possible moment. He could only hope that his ankle wasn't dislocated or sprained, and hobble on as quickly as possibly.

Fisher's desperate attempt to get going was instantly nipped in the bud, his right foot still firmly stuck in place. Daring a closer look he froze with horror. The presumed roots were long, bony fingers in fact, fingers that had dug their way unhesitatingly upwards through the moldy soil until they had left their lightless grave and clutched his ankle like a steel trap.

Screaming in fear Fisher tried to escape from the merciless hold, but now the very earth below him was moving restlessly, freeing unspeakable horror from its depths. Everywhere in the cemetery grave stones shook and teetered and bony fists and faces in all states of decay pushed through the moldering leaves when the dead left their lair to haunt the living.

In a last-ditch effort, his strength multiplied by the first vestiges of madness caused by sheer terror, Fisher at last managed to rip his ankle from its appalling cage, hearing old bones break with a sickening snap. Moving on all fours like an animal, blind with terror and babbling like a drunk, the judge instinctively tried to crawl away from the hungry living dead, but his flight was abruptly stopped by a pair of long, leather-clad legs that seemed to have made their unexpected entrance out of thin air, but could have very well have been anchored in the core of Erna itself, not yielding an inch under the impact.

Wondering what kind of new horror was lying in store for him Fisher gathered the last fading remnants of his wit and courage and glanced up at the figure that was blocking his path to survival. Completely baffled the old judge gasped and blinked, not quite believing his eyes for the third time that abominable night.

Towering over him stood a tall, lean man dressed in a strange mixture of modern attire and multi-layered silken robes that would have been perfect for a costume play set in the Revivalist period. The supple, evidently custom-made leather boots were impeccable despite the sticky mud and the rotting leaves, the midnight blue silk shirt and matching surcot that might have been all the rage a millennium ago, but seemed weirdly out of place now, absolutely clean and not marred by wrinkles or creases.

Despite these obvious anachronisms there was nothing ridiculous in the poise of the stranger who wore the robes from a bygone era and the sword in its embroidered sheath with a casual, consummate grace for which he would have been envied by each and every young dandy in Jaggonath. But it hadn't been the clothes that made the judge gasp in surprise.

Fisher had never been a religious man. He believed in provable, tangible facts, not in the despicable, superstitious nonsense the Church utilized to keep the dumb multitudes in check. But if he'd been one of the faithful he might have rejoiced that God had sent one of his angels to succor him from the fangs of death.

The young man whose mesmerizing silver eyes gazed down on him was breathtakingly beautiful in an androgynous, angelic way, his flawless ivory skin seemingly made from different stuff than Fisher's coarser one. The serene, delicate features were completely untouched by the mundane troubles of the mortal world, and the judge couldn't help but stare, feeling very much like a condemned soul that had awakened in heaven against all odds.

With effort the old judge managed to tear his eyes away from the ethereal apparition and risked a glance at his surroundings. The armada of rotting zombies had formed a loose circle around them, groaning and swaying back and forth, but none of them dared to cross an invisible line. Apparently even the undead feared one of God's messengers.

"Please, have mercy on me", Fisher rasped, digging his fingers into the black leather. "Whoever you are, help me, and I'll give you whatever you want. I'll go to church each Sunday, give money for the poor, if you just get me out of this hellish place."

"This hellish place?" the being whispered, and its smooth voice slid down Fisher's spine like a shard of ice. "What hell entails is beyond your mortal comprehension, Honorable. I've already been there. But you will see for yourself. So very soon."

Startled Fisher faced the stranger again, just to witness a fleeting look of terror and gut wrenching pain passing over the pale, ageless face, but when the creature's glittering eyes locked with his own they were filled with a cold, distant amusement that made the breath hitch inside his throat. Hands so much colder than winter's icy breath pried his death grip off the leather trousers effortlessly, and for the first time Fisher noticed that the body in front of him radiated no human warmth at all, but an unearthly chill that seemed to freeze the marrow inside his bones.

"But I really think we've wasted enough time with polite preliminaries. The night is getting old, and we have to get down to business. Shall we?"

The quiet voice was laced with deadly malevolence now, and to Fisher's naked horror the stranger was suddenly standing about five meters away, outside of the swaying, groaning ring of monstrosities hungering for his flesh, although the judge hadn't perceived any visible movement whatsoever.

"Dear God, who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

"Who I am?" the stranger replied derisively. "Just make an educated guess, Honorable. But while my little, starved companions here tear you to shrieking pieces remember that I am no tool."

Without further ado the creature graced him with a pleasant smile and clapped its hands in gruesome mock invitation. "Time for dinner, my friends!"

In a blinding flash of dread Fisher realized who the mysterious stranger was, and half crazed with terror he tried to get to his feet, but the Hunter's malevolent will banned him to the spot, and he had to watch helplessly as the zombies approached him, slowly, but inescapably, like the heavy steps of doom.

Then they were upon him, and Fisher's bloodcurdling howls rose to unbearable heights as they tore him apart, limb from limb. The last thing he ever saw were those terrifying eyes ablaze with twisted pleasure, eyes that had darkened from pale silver to pitch black and were filled with an insatiable, demonic hunger, windows to the very hell they'd already witnessed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The needs of his inhuman body satisfied the Hunter withdrew from his dead prey, closing the telltale wounds on Fisher's throat with no more than a fleeting thought. The judge's visceral dread at being mauled alive should have stilled his craving for human suffering more than adequately, but while feeding on his terror the old hunger had awakened inside him with a vengeance, and for once he'd succumbed to the temptation, drowning in the familiar red mist of naked blood thirst when the racing heartbeart of the dying man pumped the blood into his mouth in exhilarating spurts.

Unfortunately, the lifeblood of the old miser had a bitter aftertaste, not the dizzying, unique sweetness saturated with crushing guilt and deep caring Gerald would associate with the priest for the rest of his existence. Aided by the stringent discipline acquired in more than nine hundred years Tarrant suppressed a sigh and rinsed the taste of Fishers essence off his tongue with another helping of the delicious red wine. Then he left the library and went on his way to the basement. He still had Work to do before the dawn broke.

Silent as a shadow the Hunter opened the door to Janet's bedroom where the elderly housekeeper was sleeping peacefully. Not so long ago Tarrant wouldn't have had any qualms about terminating her life, killing her casually with no more regret than a human being felt when swatting a jarring insect, and for a brief moment he struggled with the temptation. He could do it quickly: a cut through her carotid artery, and she'd glide painlessly from the arms of death's little brother into eternity without so much as a flinch.

_Listen to yourself_, Gerald thought exasperatedly. _What has become of evil incarnate, the Darkest Prince of Hell, worrying about an old hag snoozing the night away in her bed?_

Suddenly the housekeeper sighed in her sleep and turned her head, baring her frail, wrinkled throat. Even a mortal would have been able to see the bluish veins shining through the pale, translucent skin, and Tarrant's adept sight went so much deeper, revealing the veritable rivers of life coursing through her body.

His predatory senses suddenly on full alert the Hunter noticed the delicious odour of rich, living blood wafting towards him, and his nostrils flared with an instinctive hunger so overwhelming that he had to fight a sense of vertigo. She was so helpless in her slumber, so pliant, her soul and body laid bare for him, ready for the kill.

Leaning over the woman like a deadly bird of prey Gerald's hand crept towards the slender knife fastened at his belt, but he stopped dead in his tracks when a distant memory arose from the fathomless depths of his mind all at once, a memory that had been buried under the loss of his humanity and the weight of centuries, but still carried a bittersweet note.

It wasn't so much the features but the chapped, worn hands that reminded him of another grey-haired woman, the feisty head cook at his father's fortress. Mes Anna had never feared the despised 'changeling', but had offered him the sanctuary of her bed for many a night, cradling the abused young child protectively in her strong arms while she told him stories about fairies and dragons to distract him from his pain and terror.

Gerald stifled a sigh along with those unnerving recollections and headed for the door, but stopped again to push a small, but fairly heavy purse filled with gold coins under the pillow of the snoring woman. Altering Fisher's will in Janet's favour wouldn't cost him more than a bit of concentration, and imagining the deceased judge's impotent wrath and the warrior knight's delight at this small grain of human compassion the adept allowed himself an amused, self-deprecating smile.

Tarrant might have many faults, and undeniably his nemesis Vryce wouldn't hesitate to enumerate them in the dozen, but the tendency for self-deception wasn't one of them. If he had truly intended to kill the housekeeper he could have spared himself the effort of creating the illusion of her eviscerated corpse for Fisher's benefit. He could only hope that Vryce never found out about this sentimental moment of weakness

That damned priest with his stubbornness, his infinite kindness and his idiotic notions of grace and redemption had spread the taint of his infuriating humanity like a lethal virus, corrupting what had been the ultimate, pure evil, had shaken his perfect existence to the core until he'd broken his pact with the Unnamed, setting his immortality at stake. Now his time was running out at lightning speed, but in one regard Vryce was doubtlessly correct.

For the first time in almost a thousand years Gerald was a free agent again, undead, yes, but master of his own fate, not longer cut off from any possibility to show at least a small amount of mercy. A few weeks ago he wouldn't have thought that he still possessed a shred of it, but the slackening of the Nameless One's hold over his thought processes might very well have triggered an unexpected development. At the very least he faintly remembered that he'd never been a friend of pointless killing in his mortal life, and that there'd been a time he hadn't rejoiced in the suffering of helpless humans.

The Hunter was still smiling when he opened the backdoor and let himself out into the waning night, carrying two bundles of Fisher's most precious, rare volumes. In those darkest hours before dawn the temperature had fallen considerably, but the Neocount of Merentha felt neither the cold nor the biting wind when tendrils of dark fae gathered at his feet, caressing his undead flesh and whispering their sweet, seductive promises. The night in all her beauty and magic wrapped around himself like a warm cloak as the Hunter Worked an Obscuring and merged with the darkness.


End file.
